


The Duration of Life

by kangeiko



Category: Alias
Genre: Community: fanfic100, Gen, Post-Canon, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-30
Updated: 2006-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-07 14:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"How long do you want to live?" said God to him. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Duration of Life

**Author's Note:**

> From [The Duration of Life](http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm176.html). Set post-season 5 finale.
> 
> fanfic100 Jack Bristow and Arvin Sloane #87 - Life. My table is [here](http://kangeiko.livejournal.com/113677.html).

There is no such thing as clock-watching when there is no light and no clock, but you try anyway. You mark the passage of time through any means of distinguishing one moment from the next, starting with an endless running tally of imaginary pre-teen Sydney's skipping rope. _One skipping Sydney, two skipping Sydneys, three…_ It's always as effective as a Mississippi, and just as disheartening when you reach six digits.

You're going to need larger units of time, you realise, but that presents a problem. There is nothing that interrupts the cold of the stone pressing down across your chest, or the steady _drip drip drip_ of the cracked vat you're soaking in. It will run dry eventually and you entertain yourself with the thought that maybe that will mean your death; maybe constant infusions of the bastard liquid is required. It is a very short delusion, because Sloane's breathing is even and low and one of the many familiar sounds to you now.

You are somewhat surprised that he stopped speaking, although given the content, you are infinitely grateful. The endless litany of apologies and assorted empty platitudes would have turned this into an even greater torment and it occurs to you that you should probably be grateful for his silence.

One million, three hundred thousand and eighty-four skipping Sydneys and the rest of infinity is stretching out before you when Sloane speaks. His voice is rough from disuse, and it takes you a moment to remember that it has been a very long time since either of you spoke. It is entirely possible that your voices and other last vestiges of humanity atrophied alongside your other disused muscles.

"I'm not going to apologise to you, Jack."

You say nothing.

"I know that you are expecting me to express regret at what I did, and I do regret a great many things, but, strangely, none of those things involve you." His voice is gaining a little strength; faster, smoother, more efficiently than if he truly had been silent for this long.

You wonder if you'd be able to just walk out of here if the ceiling is ever lifted, and immediately banish the thought. There is no sense in tempting fate.

 

*

fin


End file.
